[[google-drive]] “While at War” onLINE〚‹›2019‹›〛720p/1080p
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“Hollywood” was the moniker they gave me.
Amid the simulated explosions, flash-bang grenades, and pop pop pop of simunition, my elbow rested on a concrete window ledge. Using the ledge as a prop for my left arm, I jammed the opposite hand’s index finger in my ear to muffle the sound. One might think I was on a radio calling in simulated air strikes, but this phone call was far more important than bombing Special Forces soldiers dressed in Middle Eastern thawbs attacking our position. No, my fraternity brother was in dire need of directions. Directions on how to make trash can punch.
“Sledge! What the fu — ”
Instinctively, I took the finger out of my ear and raised it in the air, silencing the offender. “Use the pink Country Time lemonade!” I yelled over the sounds of simulated war. “Otherwise it’ll taste like cough syrup!”
From my peripheral, I saw another soldier walk in the concrete room, and he skidded to a halt, jaw agape. Time now limited, I shouted the instructions as fast as possible. “30 cans of beer! Everclear! Don’t eff this up or I’ll — ” But I never finished before my team sergeant’s voice boomed over the explosions.
“Hey, Hollywood! Turn your fucking phone off!!”
I didn’t understand the reference, but later discovered it was from the opening sequence of the Jim Carrey film Me, Myself, & Irene. Not that the movie mattered, let alone the reference to it. As word spread that I took a call to plan a party I was thousands of miles away from in the middle of a fake war, “Hollywood” stuck.
The real war — the one going on in Afghanistan — was still a blockbuster Band of Brothers miniseries going on in my head, so I didn’t need to take fake training seriously. I’d be fine. We’d be fine. The Taliban were lousy shots anyway, I rationalized. I’d seen enough war movies to know if you got shot, a medic would jab you with morphine while you screamed and opened fire on the hordes of bastards responsible for 9/11.
My idealistic fantasy lasted another two weeks while “Hollywood” orchestrated pranks and fell asleep during training. But then the real war happened, and Hollywood got scared.
Three Months Earlier, March 2003
The call came in the middle of one of my college art classes. A few days earlier, I’d been making poor decisions — like bonging three beers at once — on the beaches of South Padre Island. From afar, I eyed a climbing tower the U.S. Army had erected on the beach. Nonprofits and business littered the sands closer to the hotels, careful to keep their distance from the ocean tide and drunk coeds. Staring at the massive tower, I wondered aloud if anyone actually joined the Army amid the debauchery of Spring Break.
As if on cue, whispers spread throughout the beach that the United States had just invaded Iraq. The timing of my question couldn’t have been more ironic. Maybe the Army would get sign-ups after all. While the whispers of invasion spread through bikinis and bonfires, chants of U-S-A roiled over the ocean breeze and reached a crescendo on the crowded beach. September 11th was still a fresh wound and the war effort in Afghanistan appeared to be taking time. Iraq, however, was shiny and new.
Curious to know details, I wandered over to the Army recruiting tower where TV screens played real-time updates of grainy-green night vision and gunfire. My heart sank watching the images play out in real time, knowing half of my unit was already in Iraq. I’d known for months about our plans to invade Iraq, but I wasn’t on a battle roster due to my ongoing education.
One recruiter saw that longing in my eyes as I stared at the TV and thought I planned to join on the spot. Buenos Aires was a nuclear wasteland now, taken out by the bugs. Johnny Rico and his band of Starship Troopers would be what kept the bugs at bay during the Battle of Iraq. And just like the cult-classic movie, the recruiter asked the same question of our titular hero, Hollywood: “Think you have what it takes?”
When I met other members of the military, I’d always inform them I was already a soldier. This time I kept my mouth closed. For whatever reason, I shook my head and walked away from the recruiting stand. I was jealous I wasn’t with my unit and ashamed I’d been having fun on a beach. The last day of Spring Break, I stayed in my hotel room, letting the implications set in. Just a matter of time before my number got punched and I ended up in one of these wars.
I was right. Three days after Spring Break, the caller ID informed me the Army had come to collect. Panicking at the number appearing on my cell, I stormed out of class while tripping over desks. The interruption was awkward and violent enough that my flabbergasted professor exclaimed, “Well, excuse you!”
The call took no more than two minutes. Where am I going? Afghanistan. When? ASAP. Can I take finals? Maybe.
I stayed in the hallway staring out a stained glass window while light danced on the dusty floor. All blood had drained from my face, so when I returned to my classroom to take a seat, a fellow student nudged me, sensing something was off. “You okay? What was all that about?”
Gripping my №2 pencil, I shifted my head slightly and whispered, “I’m going to war… and I don’t know how to tell my parents.”
Kandahar
I backed up to retch but couldn’t seem to hold onto my rifle and vomit simultaneously, so I dry heaved instead. The blue door of the port-a-potty slapped against the side of the portable toilet while a 122-degree wind pushed the smell deeper in my lungs. I backed up farther, feeling my eyes water. It looked like the scene from the movie Jurassic Park where they inspect a mound of dinosaur feces. A large pile of human excrement reached out of the top of the toilet and culminated in a sharp point, defying gravity and proudly standing inches above the hole.
A slap on my back jarred me back upright while an unfamiliar voice chuckled. “I see you found the Jordanians’ shitter.” Wiping my eyes, I coughed and tried to formulate a few words, but nothing came. The other soldier just laughed. “These may be the closest toilets, but you don’t ever wanna use them.” He pointed to another row of port-a-potties in the distance shimmering like a heat mirage. “Those are the ones to use. We don’t let the Jordanians anywhere near ’em. Fuckers stand on the sides and shit all over the edges. Guess it’s cultural to squat like bitches when you shit. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I took the soldier’s advice and made my way toward the toilets he’d pointed out. The reality I would soon head to a small forward-operating base where attacks occurred almost daily lingered heavy while I sat with my thoughts inside the blue plastic box.
I tried to mask my fear by making jokes. Hollywood came out in full force, but no one else found him funny. They were dealing with their own demons. This was real. Bullets were real. Landmines were real. Real people died.

Day 1 in Kandahar. Photo courtesy of the author
Once I exited the porta-john, I made my way back to our ramshackle tent where several teammates flipped through old Maxim magazines. I curled up on a cot in front of a large industrial fan and fell asleep. When I woke, my team sergeant, Paul — who had also given me the name Hollywood — stared at me while I rubbed my eyes. He was reassembling his rifle but refused to take his eyes off me. Once his task was complete, he slammed the butt of the rifle against the floor, sending puffs of moon dust into the air, and then motioned to the door.
“Walk with me, Hollywood.”
Paul pushed open the tent flap where we stepped into the fading daylight. The temperature cooling, we made our way toward a bombed-out metal garbage heap where a warped picnic table invited passersby to sit amid the wreckage. We took seats on opposite sides, and I tried to crack a joke about how everything looked like Thunderdome. Paul didn’t smile.
“I understand you asked to stay behind and work a desk job.”
My eyes shifted to the worn table in front of us, and I picked at the splinters between cracks. Hours earlier I begged our commander to let me swap and stay in the headquarters in Kandahar. Kandahar was safe. Where my team planned to go was the Wild West. Stories of gun battles and eating C-rations — the military equivalent to canned dog food — were the norm. I thought people were just making it up until I met soldiers from the front who confirmed, “No, it’s all true, and it sucks.”
Paul sighed when I said nothing, and we continued to sit in silence. After a few awkward beats, Paul’s demeanor softened. Instead of the gruff sergeant, I got his dad voice. “Hollywood, I know you’re scared. We’re all scared. I’d be lying if I tried to pretend I’m not terrified. I worry every day I’ll leave my wife a widow and my newborn never knowing her dad… But I need you. Our team needs you.”
The change in Paul’s tone surprised me, so I looked up and met his eyes for a moment, then went back to picking splinters. “But what if I’m too afraid to do my job?” I said above a whisper as I picked at the table like a scab. When he said nothing, I eventually looked up and realized he’d been waiting for me to make eye contact once more.
“Courage is doing the right thing even when you’re afraid, Hollywood. Tomorrow we’re all going to get on that helicopter, and we’ll all be afraid. But we’ll make it through this together.”
I nodded a little and continued to stare at the table. Paul stood, and shouldered his rifle, then walked over and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Together,” he reiterated before leaving the twisted mass of Thunderdome.
The Death of Hollywood
After I came home from Afghanistan, no one ever called me “Hollywood” again. Not even my old teammates. Instead, I was “Sergeant Sledge,” the guy who sounded like a G.I. Joe character. No one ever asked what happened to Hollywood either. But I know.
Fifteen years have passed since Hollywood went to war; 75 years have passed since my grandfather went to war during the height of WWII. Recently, I stumbled across old photos of my granddad during his days as a frat boy in college. There were photos of him goofing off during training much like Hollywood did. Like me, Grandpa was in college when his number got punched. He elected to sign on as a paratrooper, then left for Germany with the famed 82nd Airborne.



From L: Grandpa goofing off and pretending to stab his buddy, members of my grandpa’s airborne company, and him prior to leaving for the war. Photos courtesy of the author
As I flipped through the photos, I smiled at how our paths collided. His photo in front of the Sigma Chi house and mine in front of the Sig Ep house were similar. Even the photos of us in uniform were eerily identical. My grandfather was a gentle man, but he also had a severe edge about him. Did the war change him like it did me? When I discovered his old military ID, his face told me everything.

Photo courtesy of the author
I imagine for both of us, Hollywood was the fun times guy; the life of the party or the crazy one who pulled pranks involving people getting depantsed. Life was about fun and flirting — until the day we had to grow up.
So what happened to Hollywood? He’s dead somewhere on a mountain in Afghanistan.
And to be honest, I don’t miss him.
